The Second Girl(30)

“Costello felt bad for them, too.”

“What about you?” I hear Davidson say. For once I don’t know what to say.

“Listen. I wish I could do more, but we don’t work missing children either, just crimes against children, and she’s missing out of Virginia, not DC.”

“So was that little girl I got.”

“Whole different scenario.”

“Sounds to me like it might turn into the same scenario.”

“I know what you’re saying, Frankie, but right now she’s a missing teenager from another jurisdiction. We don’t pick up cases like that. Even if it was reported in DC, that still goes to Youth Division and Missing Persons, not us. We’re a specialized unit, mostly dealing with pedophiles and Internet crimes against children.”

“I haven’t been off the department so long that I don’t know that, Scott. I also know your task force picks up cases all over the country. I was just thinking there’s more than likely a connection between the two girls and that’s sweet media shit for your Fed supervisor. That’s why he wanted the other case in the first place, right?”

“It’s always something like that, but mostly it was easy because you did all the work.”

“I didn’t do anything on that except get lucky.”

“It was all set up for us, though. Easy pickings after that. But keep me in the loop with this one. If there’s anything I can do, you know I will.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’ll talk to you later, bro.”

“All right.”

When I get to Costello’s building, I use the hallway bathroom outside her office to snort the contents of a capsule; then I slap a bit of cold water on my face, dry off with paper towels, and walk out with something like a smile.

I open the door to the small reception area. Leah isn’t at her desk, and I remember that it’s Saturday.

I walk into Costello’s office. She’s typing on the laptop’s keyboard while looking at the screen. She stops when I enter, slides the wireless mouse along the pad, and double-clicks.

“Don’t expect me to thank you for showing up, because all this is your doing.”

“Jeez, and I thought all that was behind us.”

“This is a law firm, Frankie. A very small, but very busy law firm. Not a PI agency. I have two devastated parents sitting in the conference room, thinking I can help them find their missing daughter. And I can’t act as their liaison between the DC police and you. Yes, I’m pissed off, because there’s nothing I can do other than introduce them to you and then stay the hell out of it.”

“Well, you’ve done your part, then.”

“Now you’re being snide.”

I wanna say, “No, but I’m beginning to think I should’ve f*cked you last night.” But I have a feeling that would make matters worse. So instead I say, “Don’t mean to sound that way. Let me go in and talk to them, see what I can do.”

“I’ll be here.” Before I exit she adds, “I can’t imagine what they must be going through. I wish I could do more.”

“You’ve done more than enough. I’ll get with you in a few.”

I walk out, feeling a little less smiley.





Twenty-four



They’re sitting at the other end of the conference table. I close the door behind me. The husband stands. He looks like he’s around my age—early to mid-forties. He’s wearing a nice gray wool suit with expensive-looking brown leather oxford wingtips. There’s a briefcase on the floor beside his chair. I walk toward him and he extends his arm to shake. It’s a firm handshake.

“Ian Gregory,” he says.

“Frank Marr,” I return.

His wife barely sits up to offer her hand. Stress is evident in her face.

I take her hand.

“I’m Elizabeth.” She barely smiles.

“Why don’t we sit down,” I say.

He takes his seat. She seems to just float back into hers.

I unshoulder my briefcase and set it beside the chair I sit in.

“Do you work in the city, Mr. Gregory?”

“Just Ian, please. I work at the Pentagon. Private contractor.”

“And Mrs. Gregory?”

“I’m a stay-at-home mother.”

He reaches over, takes her hand, and they clasp their hands together to rest on her lap.

“So you got in touch with Ms. Costello through Amanda’s family?”

He has to think for a moment.

“Amanda, the little girl that was found,” I remind him.

“Yes, yes, of course. The detective we’ve been working with in Fairfax County came to our home. He asked if our daughter knew her because they went to the same school.”

“What is your daughter’s name?”

“Miriam,” he says.

I pull out a fresh legal pad notebook from my briefcase, take my pen out of my shirt pocket, and write down her full name.

“How old is she?”

“Sixteen,” he says.

“How long has she been missing?”

“Since July ninth. She said she was going to the community pool with friends. We later found out she never did.”